


Fixation on Green

by Shadowstar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, Jumpers, M/M, Masturbation, PWP without Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:16:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowstar/pseuds/Shadowstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a bit of an obsession with Mycroft wearing green. Mycroft takes notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixation on Green

**Author's Note:**

> Second fill for SRPB Round 4, this one for the square 'Green'.

John Watson has never been one to put too much stock into colors, or how one looks in certain colors. He would not call himself particularly fashion forward, as a result. But of all the colors he’s seen Mycroft Holmes in, green has to be the best. It isn’t often that Sherlock’s older brother wears such a color, but every once in a while, he’ll catch sight of him in an expensive-looking jumper in a deep forest green, or a green silk tie to accompany his usual three-piece.

The first time it happened, he’d been rather too shocked to really react. Too unsure of what to make of the unusual change, how the man had looked practically dressed down in that soft jumper and khaki pants. Though, he supposes that, every once in a while, even Mycroft must have to go home and relax. Though, the thought nearly hurts his brain to think about. The second time, he begins to suspect that Sherlock is either pushing the issue, or that Mycroft had noticed his curiosity and was further testing it. The third time, well. It became a lot more than just a passing interest.

Even he had to admit that, for all of Mycroft’s icy qualities, he looked rather… good in that deep green color.

Then, of course, there was the tie. It was always silk, he cannot imagine Mycroft wearing any other fabric. It was against a stark white shirt, beneath a charcoal jacket, and it was entirely strange to see the other man not wear red. The color of power, really; the color of luck, in some eastern cultures. But  _green_ . Now that was a color he rather likes seeing on Mycroft, against his pale skin, bringing out the red in the man’s auburn hair. It rather offset those icy eyes rather nicely.

If the brothers noticed his growing interest, neither of them said anything. Though he did have to suffer more than a few heavy sighs from Sherlock, but it was hard to tell whether or not those were actually put-upon sighs related to his liking of the other man’s brother, or if it was just Sherlock being, well.  _Sherlock_ . Either way, it was something that he was definitely taking notice of.

And if he also noticed that it became a more common thing, well. He was definitely not going to complain. Though, the more often it happened that he caught sight of the man in green, the harder it was to curb his odd reaction. Or, not  _odd_ , so much as rather  _embarrassing_ . It wouldn’t do, after all, to be seen as ‘less than’ in the presence of the feuding brothers.

Still, though. The jumper was soft-looking, likely chenille from the look of it, and that damnable deep green color. The hunter seemed to set off the auburn-haired man’s pale, freckled skin, and accentuated those icy blue eyes that were rather focused on Sherlock at the moment, thank god. The more he thinks about it, the more he has to admit, even to himself, that while Mycroft isn’t what one would call classically handsome, there was something about the government official in that damn jumper that rather made his jeans entirely too tight.

Still luckily for him, it seems like the brothers continue to be more interested in picking and sniping at each other than in paying any attention to him. And, really, that’s for the best. It means that he can let his mind wander down paths possibly left untraveled. Oh, he has and will always acknowledge that he’s rather bisexual, though he does take some offense to the idea that people assume he’s entirely  _gay_ . But the problem was that it was Mycroft bloody Holmes, and if the two brothers really turned their attention on him, he has a feeling that he would end up caught up in their battle and picked apart in the process.

Still, it becomes more and more frequent that at the end of the day when he is alone and in his room and Sherlock is either scratching away at his violin, or otherwise hopefully distracted by his experiments, he can let his mind wander. Can let his hand slip into his boxers, can close his eyes and imagine.

That green jumper, of course, would be well-used in tying Mycroft’s hands. The man who was always in control of everything would be pale against his dark bed linens, spread out before him, slightly flushed from pleasure. He would writhe and make the most beautiful noises as John would pleasure him, either with hand or mouth, bringing him close to the edge of orgasm each time, only to back off. He would have Mycroft begging for that release, begging  _him_ for it, and how could he not oblige such beautiful pleas? All in his own time, though, and then he would sink into Mycroft, thrust into him, and—

Of course, he never quite makes it past that point in his fantasy. John’s hand would tighten around himself in an attempt to imitate how he would imagine Mycroft to be—hot and slick and so fucking  _tight_ —only his hand would speed up, seemingly on its own, and he would end up with a sticky mess over his stomach, his chest heaving and his own voice ringing in his ears still.

It all comes to a climax—every pun intended, and he would rather congratulate himself on his wit if he weren’t so  _flabbergasted_ —when he comes down one morning to find Sherlock gone, and Mycroft in John’s chair.

For all of a moment, he thinks he must truly have gone nuts because there was no way that Mycroft would be sitting in such a fashion, relaxed into the chair, hands resting on each of the arms, sharp blue eyes on him the moment he enters the living room. Of course, that moment passes, and then his palms are sweaty and he knows that his jeans are just a bit tighter, and Mycroft is wearing that  _bloody jumper_ .

And, most importantly, though it doesn’t kill the arousal at all, Mycroft  _knows_ what he’s doing. What that jumper does to him. The slow smirk that stretches over the man’s face tells him all he needs to know.

“Sherlock isn’t here,” he tries, tries to get hold of the situation again, tries his best to make himself a little more useful. Of course, the try falls flat because his pulse has picked up, his respiration is elevated and he knows that his pupils are likely dilated. Not to mention he'd just  _totally_ stated the obvious in a rather mental-kick worthy fashion.

“I am aware, John, thank you,” Mycroft returns, his voice smooth like silk, like the green silk ties he sometimes wears. Soft, too, like the chenille jumper the man is wearing over dark trousers today. Completely, utterly different than he could have imagined the man’s voice to be.

John can’t help but to swallow, fingers flexing against his palms. Not quite twitching, not shaking, just most definitely nervous. But he’s always lived for dangerous situations, and how is this any different?

Especially when Mycroft  _knows_ . It’s clear in the way the man’s eyes take to roving over him, taking in his reactions, taking in the way that he shifts and tries to surreptitiously ease the ache of a hard cock in jeans suddenly far, far too tight.

“So, uh… If you’re not here to pester Sherlock, why  _are_ you here?” he has to ask, though he has a feeling that he may or may not like the answer.

It was still rather up in the air at the moment.

That smirk doesn’t help, either.

“I am here to… scratch an  _itch_ , you might say,” Mycroft returns, his eyes returning to John’s. The smirk widens, meaning hanging heavy in the air.  It feels like the air has become electrified, and it’s suddenly  _far_ warmer in here than it had been a moment ago.

“Though, I strongly suspect that this encounter will go  _far_ differently than you had imagined it.”

It was an acknowledgement of Mycroft knowing, and it was a promise, and  _oh god_ , John was well and truly fucked.

More than likely literally, at this rate.

He swallows convulsively, feeling caught, very aware of the man’s eyes on him. Feeling that gaze like a physical sensation over his skin, making gooseflesh stand out along his arms, prickling at the back of his neck. On the one hand, it makes him want to hide, to cringe away. On the other, it desperately makes him want to strip down so that Mycroft can properly see all of him.

“Come here, John.”

Mycroft’s voice startles him out of his thoughts, and he reacts before he can even really put too much further thought in it, his feet moving forward, if a little clumsily. But once he catches himself and begins to move forward, it’s easy, really. To take those steps into Mycroft’s space, to look down at the usually taller man, standing just outside of the man’s reach for now. That is, of course, when Mycroft shifts, letting his legs fall open a little further, and his eyes follow the movement, unable to help himself, and—

Oh,  _fuck_ yes.

“Given your continued positive reactions, I am assuming that you are quite enjoying the view,” Mycroft murmurs,  _teasing_ , and that is not something he’d expected at all. It throws him for a moment, before it hits him rather suddenly.

Mycroft… is nervous too? Maybe. It was a novelty, to think that Mycroft Holmes is actually  _nervous_ . But then, he has to wonder just how close and intimate Mycroft has ever been with someone. Though, sex and intimacy don’t necessarily have to go hand-in-hand, he knows. Sadly.

Just scratching an itch. Right.

“Oh, yeah,” he breathes, roughly, knowing the verbal responses in this case would definitely be the best.

“I do suggest that you show me to your bedroom, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft murmurs, eyes hooded, even as he draws a single finger down the center of John’s chest, down his stomach, and down over the bulge in the front of his jeans. The touch is light, but it’s still  _there_ , and it’s enough to make him shiver in reaction, his hips moving almost of their own accord to seek out a firmer touch.

“John,” he breathes, correcting the man, causing Mycroft to blink at him. “We do this, you have to call me John. I don’t exactly have any fantasies regarding my profession.”

Mycroft’s lips twitch as he presses the heel of his palm against the straining front of John's jeans, giving a firm rub.

“John,” he agrees, his voice practically a purr, and what little thought that John had had in regards to Mycroft being nervous utterly vanishes.

He gives a whimper when Mycroft’s hand pulls away, growling softly before he reaches down and grabs the man by the front of that bedamned hunter green jumper and pulls the taller man up. He ignores the soft huff of amusement as he physically drags the man upstairs and to his bedroom, just as requested.

At some point the green jumper ends up left on the door handle, a warning. Not that it was exactly needed; the noises coming from John’s bedroom were definitely warning enough.


End file.
